“Between us and heaven or hell is only life, which is the frailest thing in the world.”.

Three weeks from Los Angeles,
My brain as streaked and grimy as the old train platform.

But the journey left bright traces, surprising deposits
Of goodness and meaning. Sweet things. And regret.
You never know at the beginning what those will be,
Or which turns lead you to them.
These traces are always what remain.
They are the point of it all.

I wake up sometimes before the sun comes up.
A freight passing through town pulls two blasts on his horn.
I feel a restlessness stirring, and smile.

And then I drift to sleep, the bed rocking gently back and forth
Like it did that one dawn, the sun rising
Angry, dry and bright in New Mexico.

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I remember him. He was sitting in the heat on the dock waiting for the ferry to Okracoke, Island in the Outer Banks, NC. It was probably sometime in '72 or '73. He'd driven nearly 12 hours straight and was so tired he couldn't understand the accents of the natives there. I wonder whatever happened to him? I heard a rumor that he married a skinny Irish girl and they settled down somewhere, had a couple of boys, got old. He put on a few pounds. She's still got the girlish shape that caught his eye all those years ago. He probably still has that shirt, though, and still wishes he looked like this. The idiot.

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